This one was a collector’s specimen: a huge and immovable bald man in dark glasses, with the sort of body never meant to fit in a suit. A menhir in Man at M&S. His upper arms were like thighs, his wrists like ankles, his fingers thick as pork sausages. His chest was so broad his nipples were in different time zones. He looked as if he could lift weights with his tongue. He inspected Slider’s ID carefully but without comment, and unhooked the velvet rope to let him past with massive indifference. He had one of those curly plastic wires behind his ear and seemed to be less interested in Slider than in what was coming through it, though whether that was terse orders from Pennsylvania Avenue or something humalong from Take That there was no way of knowing.
Inside they were still setting up, though the music was already on, at brain-bouncing volume, and the pink and blue lights were throbbing as the staff hurried about their tasks. They were all wearing black trousers, white shirts and sparkly red waistcoats with striped backs and matching bow ties. Slider went up to the bar and managed to attract the attention of a young man who was stacking bottles of champagne into a glass-fronted chiller. Presumably the clientele who were going to be ordering them would not be queuing with the polloi outside.
It was hard to make himself understood against the volume of the dance music, but the flash of his ID got the man to stand still at least and listen. Inevitably, he said he didn’t know anything about the fracas. ‘But I only been here two month,’ he said in an all-purpose mid-European accent. ‘You want talk to François. He long time – many, many month.’
François was tall, brisk, and introduced himself as line manager, and though impatient to the point of exasperation at being interrupted in his duties when the barman called him, he quickly resigned himself when he saw the ID and led Slider into a stockroom behind the bar where the music was at least muted. Here, standing among the stacks of boxes and the clean smell of cardboard, Slider put his question about the incident.
‘Yes, I remember it,’ François said. His English was good, his accent mellifluous. ‘The Asset Strippers’ crew come here often. We have many people from that scene. Many artists, also. My little sister loves the Asset Strippers, this is how I remember. And the other man in the fight, he was also an artist.’
‘Ben Jackson,’ Slider offered.
François shrugged. ‘Him I didn’t know, but he was the boyfriend of Kara, who also my little sister loved. Very sad that she died. This man was still very upset, I think. He try to hit other man—’
‘Do you know his name?’ Slider asked. ‘The man from Asset Strippers’ crew?’
François looked at him carefully. ‘It was not his fault. He did not start the fight.’
‘You know his name,’ Slider concluded.
‘I see him in here a lot. He is very friendly to the staff.’
‘Jesse Guthrie,’ Slider said, and François bowed his head slightly in bare acknowledgement. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘it’s very important that you tell me the truth about this. Did Jesse Guthrie sell cocaine?’
A stubborn look came over François’ face. ‘There are no drugs in this club. It is clean place.’
Slider smiled. ‘Come on. You can’t stop clubbers taking drugs unless you have one-on-one policing the whole time. I know it and you know it, and your managers know it. I’m actually not interested in that. I’m not in the Drugs Squad and that’s not what I’m investigating. I swear to you this will not come back on you, and no one will ever know what you’ve told me. But I do need to know the truth. Ben Jackson attacked Jesse Guthrie because he said he was selling drugs. I just need to know if that was true.’
There was another hesitation, while François’ dark eyes searched Slider’s face for bona fides. Then he shrugged and gave in. ‘He sold cocaine and E. I have seen people go up to him. You know what it looks like.’
‘Yes,’ said Slider, and he saw it in his mind’s eye. The casual approach, the murmur in the ear, the avoided eye contact, the hands low down making the quick exchange, the immediate disengage. Once you knew, you could spot it across a room or across a street as easily as if it was attended by party blowers, horns and helium balloons. ‘So he was well known for it?’
‘I have heard it from other people. You want stuff, you go to him. Not just here, but backstage. So maybe this – Ben Jackson? – was right.’
‘Have you seen him recently?’
‘No,’ said François, and there was nothing evasive about it. ‘Not for a long time. Maybe he goes to different club now. The management here don’t like to have fights. Maybe they bar him.’
Still, he could find him easily enough through the band, Slider thought. No need to trouble this man further. ‘Well, thank you,’ he said. ‘You’ve been very helpful.’
François’ manly jaw grew square and gritty. ‘I have told you nothing,’ he said forcefully.
Slider smiled. ‘That’s right. You’ve told me nothing. I’m going away disappointed.’
François relaxed slightly, but he did not smile. ‘There are no drugs in this club. It is clean place.’
‘No drugs,’ Slider said. ‘I get it.’
Joanna had not long been home when Slider arrived – the bonnet of her car was still hot. As he walked up to the front door he saw the lights go on in his father’s annexe, so she must have just relieved him of responsibility, and he had gone home.
He opened the front door, and she came out from the drawing room into the passage. ‘You’re late,’ she said.
‘I’ve been clubbing,’ he answered.
‘Seals or discos?’
‘Just following up a clue in Soho. You look tired.’
‘I’m absolutely knackered,’ she said. ‘Nine hours, and hardly any retakes, so we were playing for most of that. I’m getting too old for this kind of thing.’
‘Fancy a drink?’
‘Boy, howdy!’
‘Whisky? G and T?’
‘Whisky makes me thirsty. I was just making myself a G and T,’ she said. ‘Fetch yourself a glass and some ice. I’ve got the tonic.’
When he returned from the kitchen, she was forcing open the French windows (warped with age and damp – needed replacing – couldn’t afford it yet). ‘There’s not a breath of air,’ she said.
‘There’s going to be a storm,’ he offered.
She gave him a crooked smile. ‘There speaks the countryman. What was it, spider webs lying down? Cows flying north?’
‘Weather forecast on the car radio.’
‘Well, we need it. Maybe it’ll cool the air. The heat today! I don’t know why recording studios are always like the black hole of Calcutta. You’d think record companies could spring for a bit of air conditioning.’
She sounded disconsolate, and he opened his mouth to ask her what was wrong, but she got in first. ‘So how’s the case going?’
He sighed. ‘It’s all very complicated. Nothing tangible to go on, just a lot of hints and suggestions of things that ought to connect up and don’t quite.’
‘So, are you all right with this one?’
‘All right?’
‘Well, it’s not a woman, and it’s usually the women that bother you.’
He looked at her. ‘Is that what you think of me?’
‘I don’t mean it in a bad way,’ she said. ‘You just seem to mind more about women.’
‘I always mind,’ he said. ‘Whoever it is. Someone destroys a piece of work that’s taken years to create, something they couldn’t come near to making themselves.’
‘What a piece of work is man,’ Joanna said. ‘How noble in reason, how infinite in faculties, in form and moving how express and admirable. Ragni and Rado knew a thing or two.’
‘Who?’
‘The blokes who wrote Hair.’
‘Oh, is that who said that? Well, they were quite right. I hate waste and destruction.’
‘I bet when you were a boy you never kicked down another kid’s sandcastle.’
‘What about you?’
&nbs
p; ‘I was never a boy.’
‘I mean, how’s by you?
She looked at him – he thought, a touch warily. ‘Specifically?’
‘You’ve been down the last couple of days.’
‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to be a grouch.’
‘You’re never a grouch. I know when there’s something on your mind, that’s all.’ He hesitated. ‘Is it the LSO job?’ She hadn’t mentioned it for ages, but if she’d given up on the idea she’d have told him. ‘The applications close this week, don’t they?’ he asked.
‘How d’you know that?’
‘I’m a detective, remember?’
She didn’t smile, just drew a troubled sigh. ‘Can we not talk about it? Please? I just— I don’t want to think about it now. I’m worn out with it.’
‘Whatever you like.’
Somewhere quite near, probably in the next garden, two young foxes started squabbling with their piercing yips and squeals, and further off a dog barked in response. The new urban soundscape, he thought wryly. Perhaps on hot Baltimore nights it would be gunshots and sirens. We all have our wildlife.
Silence fell again. Slider drank from his glass, relishing the fragrance of gin, the tang of lemon, the cold bubbles on his tongue. When he put the glass down, the ice cubes rang daintily like wind chimes. As if conjured by the sound, there was a sudden, cool breath of air. He lifted his head and snuffed, smelling the ozone on it. ‘Here it comes,’ he said.
A moment later there was a tremendous flash of lightning that made Joanna jump. A few fat drops of rain smacked the concrete, making dark marks the size of pennies. Another lightning flash, so intense it almost fizzled; and this time, close behind it, a positive bark of thunder.
‘I’d better see if Boy’s all right,’ Joanna said nervously.
‘Wait a second,’ Slider said, catching her hand.
A few more scattered drops, then a faster rattle, and then it came down like Hollywood rain, in a hosepipe torrent. The temperature dropped ten degrees. The trees rustled and bent. The water pelted the dry garden and soaked the grass. The gutters and downpipes gurgled. It was as satisfying as watching an elephant drink.
‘Wonderful!’ Slider shouted against the drumming.
‘The bedroom windows are open!’ Joanna cried. But she was laughing as she pulled her hand free and hurried away.
It was like a different world the next day, cool and fresh, with a sky of high grey clouds, the pavements washed clean, the smell of water everywhere.
At work it began with negatives. Ben Corley had not made any calls on his mobile phone since April. ‘He could’ve had a new one, o’ course,’ said Hollis. ‘Bought a pay as you go, and black-sack man took it away wi’ everything else. We’ll never know.’
There was disappointment, too, from the credit card statement, which showed that had not been used, either. And there had been no activity from his cheque book; nothing on his bank statement but a couple of regular standing orders.
‘But he did take out a large sum of money in cash just before Easter,’ Atherton reported. ‘Had to order it from the bank specially – from a very healthy savings account, by the way, so he wasn’t hard up. Fifteen thousand pounds, he took out. I suppose that’s what he’s been living on for the past three and a half months.’
‘But why?’ Swilley said.
‘It’s obvious,’ Connolly said. ‘Your man’s doing the vanisher. Dyes his hair, shaves off the beard, takes a rented room under a false name. Living on cash so’s no one can check up on him.’
‘What was he gonna do when the cash run out?’ McLaren said.
‘Get some more, ya divvy,’ said Connolly. ‘Sure, didn’t you just hear he had plenty? Anyway, we know he was earning for part of the time at least, so he probably didn’t get through it all.’
‘So where was the rest, then?’ McLaren asked. ‘We didn’t find any cash in Conningham Road.’
There was a brief pause and then several people said at once, ‘Black-sack man.’
‘Or maybe it’s hidden at the Wynnstay Gardens flat,’ Atherton said. ‘We haven’t gone through every drawer yet. And we think he went back there from time to time, so maybe he collected some more dosh at the same time.’
‘But you still haven’t answered the question,’ said Swilley. ‘Why?’
‘Maybe he was hiding from someone,’ Fathom said. ‘He’d got into some shit with someone and they were after him, and he decided to hole up until the heat was off.’
‘I suppose it’s a possibility,’ Slider said. ‘There seem to have been a lot of drugs in the background story.’
‘Yeah, and he tried to punch out this Jesse Guthrie bloke,’ McLaren said, taking it up. ‘Maybe Guthrie got some of his pals together and went after him.’
‘Or maybe Guthrie wasn’t the only one he pissed off,’ Fathom added excitedly. ‘If he got in shtuck with some drugs ring . . .’
Slider took a pull on the reins. ‘He doesn’t seem to have been acting like a man afraid for his life. For a start, he didn’t move very far away. And to go on with, he didn’t exactly “hole up”. Getting yourself a job in porn films is not the action of a retiring personality.’
‘So, what then?’ Swilley asked. ‘What was he up to?’
Into the silence, Atherton said, ‘There was another thing he stopped doing, as well as using his credit card and mobile phone. He stopped tweeting.’
They all looked at him.
‘Emily and I were looking at it last night. He used to be a regular on Facebook and Twitter. Of course, there was a lot of activity after Kara died – people condoling with him and saying what a great artist she was and what a tragedy, etcetera etcetera. Then he started tweeting about the evil of drugs, especially the culture of acceptance that had grown up around the pop scene and youth culture in general. And that turned into ranting – and I do mean ranting – about the people who supplied the drugs, and how they had effectively murdered Kara. But then suddenly, in the middle of March, it stops. Cut off, just like that. Tweetless as a strangled budgie. Since then, not a dickie bird.’
‘So that’s before he goes to Conningham Road?’ Swilley said.
‘That was about the time he got into the brawl with Jesse Guthrie,’ Slider said slowly. ‘Maybe that incident does have something to do with it. We’ll have to see if we can’t have a word with him.’
‘How’ll we find him?’ Fathom demanded.
‘Easiest thing to do is to ask Asset Strippers’ agent,’ said Slider.
‘And who,’ Atherton asked rhetorically, ‘is that?’
‘Murray Mann,’ Slider said without thinking.
Atherton gave him an admiring look. ‘The things you know, guv! You’ll be humming the tunes next.’
‘Don’t be cheeky. Just for that, you can ring Mr Mann. I’m going to see Mr Porson.’
Porson listened intelligently, and said, ‘It certainly sounds as though drugs come into it somewhere. These clubs are all riddled with it. But from what you say, the frackarse doesn’t sound that serious.’ He pronounced it the Shepherd’s Bush nick way. ‘Not enough to put him in fear of his life. These players down the end of the food chain aren’t supposed to draw attention to themselves.’ He stuck his biro between his teeth and chewed absently while he thought. ‘No, there’s something else going on as well. It’s more like he’s gone under cover. You said he was a journalist?’
‘A music journalist. But he’d given in his notice,’ Slider said. ‘I did wonder myself about an undercover investigation, especially given that Vanya’s is where Paul Barrow used to work. But that was years ago. And if Corley had already identified Guthrie as the man who supplied charlie to Kara, what was there to investigate?’
‘No use asking me the questions,’ Porson barked. ‘What are you doing about it?’
‘We’re going to have a word with Guthrie. And we’re still going through the Wynnstay Gardens flat. There’s a lot to look through. The longer we can keep the media away from that the better.�
� He said it on a hopeful note, looking at his boss appealingly.
‘We’re not going to break it,’ Porson said. ‘We’re still putting it out as Robin Williams, unknown nobody. But sooner or later someone’s going to blab. The sister knows, and now the bloke’s agent or manager, or whatever he is, knows. They’ll mention it to someone, and – boom! – media feeding frenzy. Too much good stuff for the press to ignore. So it’s no use giving me the spaniel look. I’ll do what I can to keep the address out of it but . . .’ He shrugged.
Slider agreed it was hopeless. ‘I’m surprised it hasn’t leaked out before this. Apart from anything else, the porter knows who he really was. But maybe he’ll keep quiet out of loyalty to the family.’
Porson snorted. ‘Hope springs internal!’ he mocked.
ELEVEN
Hansel and Regrettal
Mackay hadn’t been there first thing, and as Slider returned to his office from Mr Porson’s, he met the delinquent DC on the stairs, looking ragged.
‘Sorry, guv,’ he got in first. ‘Very late night, doing the clubs, didn’t hear the alarm.’
‘I hope it was a productive late night. You look like a piece of cheese. I’m not signing an expenses sheet for a debauch, you know.’
‘It wasn’t the drinks, guv, it was the noise,’ Mackay said. ‘Trying to ask questions and hear the answers. But I did get something.’ He managed a smile, the sort a dog gives you when your sandwich has gone missing. ‘Something good.’
‘All right, let’s all hear it,’ Slider said, leading the way. He cast a sideways glance at Mackay as he tramped beside him. The strip lighting was not doing him any favours. ‘You’re not going to throw up, are you?’
‘I hardly had anything,’ Mackay protested. ‘I just need a cuppa and an aspirin the size of Middlesex.’
Mackay had gone first to the Forty-Niners. He had a new photo to show round, not the corpse mugshot but a good one taken from the Wynnstay Gardens flat and photo-shopped to remove the beard and change the hair. He had not seen Tommy Flynn, and when he asked after him casually, no one seemed to have seen him for a couple of days.
Blood Never Dies Page 16
